Cinderella
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-'Endgame'. Eve takes it upon herself to make sure Cinderella goes to the ball. But Prince Charming is a complicated, conflicted sort of man... Boyd/Grace. T for language/content. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Dedicated to… shippers far and wide._

* * *

><p><strong>Cinderella<strong>

by Joodiff

_A woman should soften but not weaken a man._ – Sigmund Freud

* * *

><p>The sound of Grace laughing makes Boyd look up. His office door is open, and he can see her clearly; she's sitting next to Eve in the squad room, evidently deep in conversation and her expression is open, animated. Happy. It makes him smile, just a little. He doesn't expect it to also momentarily tighten his chest, but it does. Studiously, he looks back down at the paperwork spread across his desk. Incredibly tedious stuff; reams of reports that he has to read carefully and then laboriously initial. Painfully dull. He glances surreptitiously at his watch. Almost eleven in the morning. Definitely time to indulge in a break, but he finds himself curiously hesitant to disturb the two women who are talking in such an absorbed, friendly way. Boyd almost feels that with Spencer and Kat out of the office, he would be an unwelcome intruder.<p>

They have become very close in the last six months, the two CCU consultants. It doesn't surprise him, and he's glad that Eve has been there to offer friendship and support, but there is a tiny, unworthy part of him that is just a little jealous, and that makes him angry with himself. Boyd realises abruptly that his gaze has unconsciously lifted, that he is watching Grace again. She looks healthy; strong. And yes, happy. The haunting fear that was in her has gone, and he's intensely glad. But he still wishes it had been him, not Eve, who'd been with her to hear that final positive verdict from the hospital. Would have been him, had it not been for unfortunate circumstance.

Grace glances up, catches him watching and smiles. Smiles straight at him, and the slight tilt of her head and the quizzical raise of her eyebrows are a clear invitation for him to join them. Conflicted, Boyd allows a very faint smile in return and looks back at his paperwork. He is head of this unit, a senior police officer who has worked incredibly hard for the position and responsibility he now holds. He is the one who summons; he is not summoned. Even as the thought goes through his head, Boyd mentally kicks himself for such an idiotic response. He is well aware that he has far too much stupid pride, and that it sometimes leads him down ridiculous roads.

It's just morning coffee. She's hardly attempting to issue orders to him. And even if she was, in reality wouldn't he actually capitulate in a heartbeat? Not a good thought. Not at all.

Grumpily, Boyd gets to his feet. Something in his back twinges sullenly, reminding him why he hates sitting stationary behind his desk for too long. He's getting old, and he doesn't like it one little bit. It's been slowly creeping up on him for years and it's getting harder and harder to ignore with every birthday; with every ache and pain. He flexes slightly, easing his spine, and walks across his office. He makes it to the doorway before Eve's voice says, "There's your answer. Ask Boyd."

They are both looking at him reflectively. One gaze very blue, one very dark. Both equally intense. That focused female stare is just a little intimidating, even though Boyd would never admit it to anyone. Suspiciously, he says, "Ask me what?"

"Cinderella wants to go to the ball, but she hasn't got a Prince Charming to take her," Eve says, her tone so nonchalant it is clearly feigned.

"Stop it," Grace says, directing a sharp glare at the younger woman. "Ignore her, Boyd."

"Perfect solution," Eve continues blithely. "He'll scrub up okay, and if you're really lucky he won't bite anyone."

The look Grace gives him is apologetic, but there's something else there, too, something that's being carefully, but not quite successfully concealed. Something a little… wistful. Boyd is still considering the fact when he hears his own voice say, "I'd comment if I actually had a clue what you were talking about."

"Grace has been invited to one of those fancy black-tie charity dos on the river," Eve says promptly. "But it's Doctor Foley plus one and she's being stubborn about the plus one. For heaven's sake, Boyd, do the gentlemanly thing, will you?"

"Eve," Grace protests, but again, Boyd detects a touch of the same wistfulness.

Peter Boyd is not a man to be pushed into things. In fact, his hackles are already rising in response to Eve's words. He's an idiot. He knows he's an idiot. Once again, he mentally kicks himself. Hard. Trying for an easy sort of insouciance, he says, "Plus one, eh?"

"Don't listen to her," Grace says hurriedly. "It's not my sort of thing, anyway."

Eve snorts.

Boyd is not the most perceptive man in the world when it comes to women, but he's wise enough and experienced enough to recognise the traditional female ploy of saying one thing and meaning something else entirely. And that hint of wistfulness has a powerful effect on him. Too powerful, maybe. He is, by nature, an impulsive sort of creature, rightly notorious for rushing in where the proverbial angels fear to tread, and he speaks out before he can dwell too closely on the matter. He says, "Prince Charming might be a push, but I can probably just about manage 'plus one'."

Grace looks surprised, slightly apprehensive. Eve merely looks insufferably smug.

-oOo-

So here he is, several days later, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror as he shaves and wonders whether it's too late to change his mind. He could still call her, could claim an unexpected emergency; a call-out to a crime scene, perhaps, or an urgent plea for assistance from another unit. Grace Foley is not the sort of woman who would create a fuss about such a thing; he knows she would be polite and philosophical, wouldn't complain or get angry. Perhaps he would actually be doing her a favour by cancelling…

He's not going to cancel. Boyd finishes shaving, runs a hand over his smooth cheek, over his neat goatee beard. Good enough. Turning his back on the mirror, he steps into the shower. He tries not to think about the night ahead, tries not to think about what he is doing and why. Shave, brisk shower, get dressed, get out to the car. Don't think too much. That's the best way. Don't think about Grace and the tentative happiness in her eyes as he casually formalised the details of how, when and where. Don't think about the part of him that is far too eager to do this little, inconsequential thing for her.

Shaved and showered, Boyd starts to get dressed. The slight vexation his expensive cufflinks cause him is nothing compared to the eternal, unfathomable challenge of the traditional black silk bowtie. But he is too proud, too stubborn and simply too vain to settle for the clip-on variety, so he ties and reties until it's right, even though it tests his patience to the absolute limit.

The very last thing he does before picking up his car keys and heading out of the house for the evening is to look at himself appraisingly in the hall mirror. A handsome, rather solemn and ruthlessly well-groomed middle-aged man in a dinner jacket looks back at him. He wonders vaguely what happened to the energetic, amiable young detective who invariably used to wear jeans and a scuffed leather jacket on a Saturday night, and then he walks towards the front door, his shoulders set absolutely square.

-oOo-

"Eve was right," Grace says, as he steps past her into the hallway of her comfortable Victorian terrace. "You do scrub up okay."

Quite deliberately, Boyd raises his eyebrows at her. He knows he looks good, and he knows she knows he knows it. It's a game. A game they seem to have fallen out of the habit of playing. He's not the only one who looks good he finally realises. He's no expert, but it strikes him that some considerable effort has been made. For him, or just for the evening in general? Boyd isn't entirely sure. Grace is looking at him in a steady, slightly amused fashion and it suddenly occurs to him that he is expected to say something appropriate. He doesn't mean to sound quite as gruff as he does as he says, "You look… nice."

"'Nice'?" Grace echoes.

Boyd winces. He is not good at this sort of thing. Never has been, never will be. He's told he is capable of a certain easy charm, but he's never really mastered the art of superficial flattery. He tries again. "Very… attractive."

She laughs, plainly far more amused than irked by his ineptitude. "Quit while you're ahead, Boyd; that's my advice."

He doesn't quite know how to deal with her in this kind of situation. At work, they are insulated by propriety and the presence of their colleagues. Idle flirtation between them at work is a given, though even that seems to have dwindled away over the years. This is an altogether more dangerous state of affairs. Deliberately self-deprecatory, he says, "I told you Prince Charming would be a stretch."

"Hmm," Grace says, sounding very non-committal.

She seems to be able do this to him far too easily – turn him from a mature, experienced man with a notable list of conquests to his name back into an insecure teenager with no idea of quite what to do or say. It irritates him – a lot. And it fascinates him, too. Boyd has no idea why she has such an effect on him. Or perhaps he does, and he simply doesn't dare examine the reason too closely. Or at all, in fact.

He clears his throat. "Come on, then, Cinderella. Let's go to the ball."

-oOo-

Boyd knows just how lost he actually is when he realises he is not staring at the striking, long-legged redhead in the unbelievably tight – and short – dress, but at the older woman on her left. The woman he sees every single working day; the woman who fearlessly defies him when he's wrong and supports him with truly astonishing ferocity when he's right. The redhead is very tall, very slim and very pretty. At a conservative estimate she is at least twenty-five years his junior, and even though she seems to be fiercely guarded by a stocky, pugnacious older man with virtually no neck, Boyd is fairly certain he could persuade her into giving him her phone number in fairly short order. He has an enviable collection of female phone numbers. Tragically, he enjoys the chase far more than the conquest – most of those numbers will remain forever uncalled.

The man with no neck is talking to Grace, and strangely, she seems to be listening intently. Maybe there is more to the man than Boyd has given him credit for. Grace is unfailingly courteous, but she doesn't suffer fools gladly. He watches as she smiles and nods, and it strikes him how incredibly lucky he is that she is still in his life. His stomach still tenses reflexively when he thinks of that terrible word… cancer. He does not want to think about that, not tonight. Not as they glide majestically down the Thames with a band playing, champagne flowing and an exhilarating nip of early spring chill in the air.

But, Christ, he's lucky.

Lucky she didn't die, lucky she's never been quite angry enough to walk away forever. Lucky, in fact, that she is prepared to tolerate the worst of him for the good she somehow seems to see in him.

Grace glances in his direction, perhaps sensing the intensity of his stare, and she smiles again. A lingering, limpid smile that is gentle, intimate and meant for him alone. And just for that single moment, Peter Boyd is a very, very happy man indeed.

-oOo-

"You're bored," Grace accuses him gently.

Boyd leans back against the boat's bow rail and shakes his head. "Not bored. Contemplative."

"Too much champagne will do that to you," she tells him lightly.

"I'm driving," he points out. "I've been on orange juice for the last two hours and I'm sick of the stuff."

"Poor Boyd," Grace says and the mischief in her eyes belies her earnest tone. "That's the trouble with boats, there's nowhere to run."

"I'm seriously thinking about jumping overboard," he tells her.

"Into the Thames? I hope you're a strong swimmer."

"I am," Boyd confirms, and it's actually the truth. "Just tell me you're enjoying yourself, that's all."

"I'm enjoying myself," Grace says obligingly. She smiles and pats him lightly on the shoulder. "Actually, I really am. I can't remember the last time I went to something like this. Thank you."

"You're welcome – but you owe me for this. Remember that."

"And knowing you, Boyd, you'll call in that debt at the most inopportune moment. One last big favour?"

Boyd knows that look. It's far too innocent. "What?"

"Dancefloor?"

"Now you're taking the piss," he growls. "Absolutely not, Grace. I don't do dancing, and you bloody know it."

She smiles at him.

-oOo-

It's not too bad, not to start with. The dancefloor is crowded and no-one is looking at them. The band is playing schmaltz, but he can just about tune that out. For Boyd, at least, things start to go wrong when they end up dancing far too slowly and far too closely. It isn't good for him to be so acutely aware of the soft curves of her body, or of the heady perfume rising from her warm skin. Not good for him at all. And the way she looks at him makes the whole thing so much worse. Her expression is knowing and amused, and deeply fond, and he doesn't think he can bear it. And just when he thinks there is no way the experience can become any more uncomfortable, Grace slips her arms around his neck. Which is just about tolerable until he feels her fingertips brushing idly through the short hair at the base of his skull. It's not good. It's not good because it's just… far too good.

Attempting a sort of worldly-wise banter, he says, "I think you may have had just a little too much champagne, Doctor Foley."

Her reply is overly-solemn. "I think you may be right, Detective Superintendent."

"If you end up totally plastered I'm calling Eve," Boyd warns. "This is entirely her fault, so she can put you to bed."

_Oh, well done, Peter,_ a voice in his head says snidely. _Shoot yourself in the bloody foot, why don't you?_

But Grace just says, "You wouldn't do that for me?"

_Get out of that one, smartarse…_

Boyd thinks he can. Probably. He tries for a wicked grin. "I really don't think you'd want me to."

"Oh, I wouldn't mind," she says, and rests her head against his shoulder, effectively hiding her expression. "I definitely wouldn't mind."

There's probably a witty, debonair sort of answer to that. But he really can't think of one just at that moment.

-oOo-

"Dance with me," she says, not for the first time.

Boyd sighs. Mustering every ounce of patience and fortitude, he says, "No."

Grace gives him a look that is beautifully, enticingly sullen. "Why not?"

"Because," he says, not unreasonably in his own opinion, "We're standing on the Embankment, it's the middle of the night, it's bloody freezing and you're extremely drunk."

"I'm not _extremely_ drunk," she tells him with considerable dignity. "_Extremely_ drunk was about an hour ago."

Boyd shakes his head. "I'm still not dancing with you."

"You're just no fun, Boyd."

"Correct. I am a bad-tempered, misanthropic spoilsport. And you're still very drunk."

"And you're still very handsome, but I'm not complaining."

He can't help laughing. "That statement makes no sense whatsoever, Grace."

She looks at him for a moment, then starts to laugh herself. It's quite genuine, that laugh, nothing to do with the copious amount of champagne she's managed to consume. Not for the first time in their long acquaintanceship, Boyd is faintly awed by her ability to hold her drink. When he gets drunk he gets maudlin and eventually falls over. When Grace gets drunk she gets affectionate and just a little uninhibited, yes, but there is never a suggestion that she isn't completely, wryly aware of what she's doing. Which makes her next words more than a little unsettling.

"Forgiveness in advance, Boyd?"

He sees the trap – but walks into it anyway. "For what?"

"For this, obviously," Grace says, and Boyd isn't altogether surprised to find himself being briefly but quite deliberately kissed.

-oOo-

"I know you're angry," she says mildly from the passenger seat. "You always grind your teeth when you're angry."

"I'm not angry," Boyd says. True, he has been unconsciously grinding his teeth, but he's definitely not angry. He's deeply uncomfortable, he's restless and he has no idea how to extricate himself from the situation he finds himself in, but he's not angry. He concentrates on driving, hoping that everything will just go away if he ignores it long enough.

"I'm sorry I took advantage of you," Grace says. As an apology it would, he feels, be marginally more effective if she didn't sound quite so much as if she was about to start laughing again. "I faithfully promise never to make such an outrageous assault on your virtue ever again."

"That doesn't actually make me feel better, Grace," Boyd says. Which probably isn't the wisest retort, under the circumstances. He hopes she doesn't pick up on the ambiguity of the statement.

She does. Of course she does. "You don't want me to promise never to make an assault on your virtue again?"

"Oh, shut up," he tells her, but without asperity. "Go to sleep or something. Just don't throw up in my car."

"I'm really nowhere near as drunk as you're implying, Boyd."

"I hope you bloody are," Boyd mutters _sotto voce_.

She hears him. Shoots him a surprisingly incisive look. "Why? Because if I was extremely drunk you could convince yourself it was just the champagne talking?"

"Exactly," he says. There doesn't seem to be any point in lying. "And stop looking at me like that."

"Or…?"

Boyd keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. "Shut up, Grace."

-oOo-

"It's just a night-cap," she says, looking at him askance.

He wonders if she has any idea of what she's doing to him. He thinks not. Grace can certainly be mischievous, just as she can be flirtatious, but she is never cruel. Presumably she thinks she's bantering with him, playing that arcane, age old game that they both thoroughly enjoy; Boyd doesn't believe for a moment that she is deliberately tormenting him. Wonders how she would react if she realised just how uncomfortable every idle, throwaway comment is making him. Fatalistically, he says, "Not a good idea, Grace."

She frowns. "Oh, come on, Boyd. It was just a silly, spur of the moment thing. Surely you're not actually offended? I've said I'm sorry – what else do you want me to do? I'm well aware that you'd far rather be pounced on by someone only just out of university but – "

He can't stop himself groaning. "Oh, God, here we go…"

She gives him the innocent look. "What? I'm just stating a fact."

"Hyperbole, Grace."

"And the last woman you slept with was how old?"

A flash of memory makes Boyd wince. The gleeful celebration of a successful prosecution, a little too much whiskey, a little too much flirtation with a particularly attractive young barrister. A definite moment of quite deliberately ignoring his better judgement, and the subsequent climbing into a taxi headed for a rather nice flat in Maida Vale. Actually, Grace may have a point. Grudgingly, he admits, "Thirty-something."

She snorts. "_Barely_ thirty-something, from what I heard."

_Thanks, Spence…_

Aloud, "It was nothing."

"Exactly my point," Grace says, sounding vaguely triumphant. "It was nothing; so stop behaving like a traumatised adolescent and come in and have a night-cap. Or a coffee, at least."

"It's gone two in the morning, Grace…"

"And…?"

Grumbling, Boyd gets out of the car.

-oOo-

There are an infinite number of places he'd rather be at that moment, Boyd quickly decides. In the car. At work. Safely tucked up alone in his own bed. Interviewing a suspect. A genuinely infinite number of places. The house feels uncomfortably warm after the chilly spring night air, but the last thing he wants to do is remove his dinner jacket. He's already struggling without compounding things for himself. He stays firmly in the kitchen doorway watching Grace as she sets about making coffee. The steady confidence with which she moves tells him that she's far more sober now than she was. Which is either very good, or very bad.

Grace looks round at him, "Black or white?"

"Black," he says. "Might have half a chance of staying awake long enough to get home safely."

"You're getting old, Boyd."

He thinks it's fairly safe to allow himself a slight smirk. "But you will always be older, Grace."

"You're so gallant."

"I am," Boyd agrees, wishing the curve of her hip wasn't quite so enticingly outlined by the material of her elegantly understated evening dress. It doesn't help that he can almost feel both the dress and the curve beneath it. Not to mention the warmth of her arms round his neck and the sensation of her fingers playing with his hair. So lost in her, and so deeply in trouble.

Not looking at him, she says, "I know I've said it once already, but thank you for tonight."

"Pleasure," he says, but dryly.

That makes her look, just as it makes her frown. "What's the matter with you? You're all over the place. One minute everything's fine, the next you're in a mood."

"Technical term, Grace?"

"Don't start that," Grace tells him, her impatience clear. "Look, I had a nice evening, I had a few drinks. I enjoyed the chance to celebrate being fit, healthy and alive. I liked having you there with me. I know it's not your sort of thing, but I don't understand why you're so… edgy."

"I'm tired," he says truthfully.

But it seems that Grace is not in the mood to let the matter drop. She says, "I thought we'd got past all this? I thought we were friends again?"

"We are friends."

"So why do I feel like we've spent half of this evening in a sort of strained armed truce?"

Brazenly, Boyd dodges the question. "Kettle's boiled."

-oOo-

It gets worse. The living room is warm and cosy and Boyd finally has to take his jacket off just to cool the sweat he can feel gathering remorselessly between his shoulder blades. And it's really quite inevitable that Grace only switches one table lamp on, thus giving the room an achingly intimate feel. But nothing is as bad as the moment she puts the radio on and of course it immediately gives forth the kind of soft night music that is terrifyingly seductive. Boyd is seriously tempted to simply stand up and bang his head repeatedly on the nearest wall until all the myriad temptations go away. But she's been convinced he's more than half mad for years, and he suspects that such an action will only result in further demands for him to 'go and see someone'.

The way she looks so intensely fragile in the soft lighting doesn't help. He really, really doesn't need any more provocation.

And then she throws down the gauntlet with, "You don't have to drive home tonight. You could stay over. On the sofa."

Boyd again considers banging his head repetitively on the wall. Preferably until he can't remember who the hell she is, much less what she does to him. It's tempting, but on balance probably not a very good idea. Some idiot is saying, "On the sofa. Right."

_Well done, Peter…_

The look Grace gives him is definitely one of curiosity. Curiosity and bemusement. "Yes. What did you think I meant?"

_You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention…_

"Nothing," he says, which is neither articulate nor honest. Black coffee, scaldingly hot. Drink it and get out, that's his plan. Get out, go home and retire to bed until the horror of it all becomes less intense. Maybe with a bottle of Scotch for good measure. It's a plan. She stands up again, unconsciously smoothing down her dress as she does so, which only makes his gaze linger more dolefully on the inviting curves beneath the fabric. It occurs to him far too late that those curves are drawing closer. Grace stops, looks down at him, and for a moment he wonders what she would do if he simply pulled her gently down into his lap. Not a good thought. But it's too late; the thought has already registered in his bloodstream.

"I don't understand you," she says quietly, as if it is news to both of them.

Boyd can't remember the last time he wanted a woman so much. He shakes his head, "No, you really don't."

And, damn, suddenly she's reaching out and her fingers are brushing lightly against his cheekbone; it feels as if her touch is burning him, blistering his skin. Boyd speaks without thinking, speaks from the heart. "Don't."

She withdraws her hand. Her expression is indecipherable – to him, at least. Her reply is soft but her voice holds a touch of weary exasperation. "Just what's going on in that head of yours, Boyd?"

He bristles instinctively and Grace silently steps back, allowing him to get to his feet. She's so much shorter than he is, so much slighter, and yet he feels ridiculously intimidated. Boyd feels like he's cornered, feels like a hunted animal at bay. His instinct – his only instinct – is to run.

-oOo-

_Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Cinderella**** (continued)**

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><p>Church bells. Boyd can hear church bells. Not close enough to be irritating, but quite clear. It's almost Easter. Another week. He is not a particularly religious man – he only knows it's almost Easter because he knows there are two forthcoming public holidays when his staff won't be at their desks. He's far too cynical.<p>

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. The familiar hairline crack in the ceiling's plaster is still there, sweeping mockingly towards the window. For the last five and a half years he has been intending to do something about that crack, superficial though it is. But the crack, like the dripping outside tap and the broken fence panel that draws complaints from the neighbours, never gets fixed.

Boyd doesn't move, just stays where he is, looking up at his bedroom ceiling. He feels old, tired and nihilistic. Desolate.

_Christ, you're such a fucking idiot, Peter…_

-oOo-

He's ignored the razor on the shelf over the sink, he's stood under the stinging jets of the shower, and he's padded round the house dressed only in a towel, and now he's staring out of the bedroom window trying to decide whether he is feeling virtuous enough to join the hearty brigade of Sunday-morning gardeners. He's not. The grass can just carry on growing. Forever, as far as Boyd is concerned. Though eventually the neighbours will complain about the length of the grass as well as the broken fence. And then he will bad-temperedly mow the damned lawn and wonder when his life outside work became so utterly banal.

His immaculate dinner jacket is hanging from the picture rail, quietly goading him. Boyd ignores it, pulls on a pair of button-fly jeans that he suspects may actually pre-date the formation of the Cold Case Unit. Faded old 501s, as battered and washed out as he is. Today he is neither Armani business suit nor dapper black tie. Today he is just the bloke next door who doesn't mow his lawn often enough and never gets round to mending the fence, the one who wears old jeans and doesn't shave on a Sunday. The guy who's something in the Met. The one who comes and goes at all hours of the day and night and once had a wife and a son living with him.

Someone's assaulting his front door. Loud, impatient knocking that speaks of an irritability that rivals his own.

Boyd goes down the stairs rapidly, hand on the bannister rail. The locks on the front door slow him down, but he's still able to throw it open in fairly short order. He glares out and a stocky, broad-faced man of about his own age glares in. The man says, "For God's sake, Peter, you're blocking my drive again. That's the third time this week. Why do you have to – "

The angry words roll off him. They are meaningless. Pointless. He watches a blackbird hopping along the top of the high front garden wall as the diatribe continues. Eventually, sudden silence prompts him to say, "It's only obstruction if you can't leave your property. In the eyes of the law, being unable to get onto your property is merely regrettable, Richard."

"God, you're an arse, Peter. Just move your bloody car, will you?"

"Five minutes," Boyd says, and shuts the door firmly in his neighbour's face.

-oOo-

And so now he finds himself in the car. Richard Gregson is glowering at him, arms folded across his meaty chest. The temptation to get out and punch the man is almost irresistible. And maybe that's why instead of simply reversing back and swinging onto his own drive, Boyd pulls out from the kerb and drives away, leaving his empty house and his angry neighbour behind him. He has no destination in mind, he is simply driving, and somehow he's very quickly at the Blackwall Tunnel and then he's driving north under the Thames, a lonely middle-aged man in an expensive executive car that doesn't belong to him. Everything's twisting inside him – rage, sorrow, frustration, love, lust, grief and pain – and if he wasn't quite so stoical, if he wasn't quite so stubborn, he would likely give in and start crying.

Boyd turns the radio on, flicks through station after station and turns the volume up and up until there's nothing but the Sunday streets and the numbing wall of sound. The sound of his younger days, hitting him like a hammer, punching him over and over. The early soundtrack to a life that once seemed so promising; a life well and truly lost.

He's not really aware of it, but Peter Boyd is following a familiar route through the metropolis. Something inside him is flirting darkly with the idea of self-destruction, and in a desperate effort to ignore it he turns the music up even more until the volume is so loud and the bass is so strong that there is virtually nothing else in his world.

-oOo-

Boyd knows he will inevitably end up here, sooner or later. The welcome isn't always terribly warm, but then the hour is sometimes very late. Not today. Today it's early in the afternoon. For a while, he sits in the car staring straight ahead, not caring whether he has been noticed from the house or not. He waits for the moment when he acts on instinct, and eventually it comes, his hand reaching out automatically for the door handle. Boyd gets out of the car with a quiet sort of resignation, no longer really caring what happens.

The front door is open long before he reaches it, and Grace is watching his approach with a serene composure that he momentarily envies. Her greeting is unconventional but placid. "Ah. The return of the prodigal."

Boyd paces towards her, not stopping until he's right on the threshold. "Prodigal son?"

Grace snorts. "Hardly. Prodigal colleague? Prodigal friend? Prodigal doesn't-know-what-the-hell-he-wants-to-be?"

Just the sound of her voice has an intensely soothing effect on him. "Bit of a mouthful, that one."

"But accurate."

"Not necessarily," Boyd says as she steps back to allow him into the house. He stops, watches as she closes the front door, and when she turns to look at him he doesn't move, just continues to watch her.

Her expression shifts slightly, becomes a little puzzled. "Are you all right?"

Boyd has no idea how to answer the question. He feels as if he's free-falling into oblivion, as if he's reached a point where he simply doesn't know what to say, what to do. He feels compelled, bewitched. Haunted and hunted. There's nothing he can say, nothing he can bring himself to say.

Puzzlement segues into concern. "Boyd…?"

She is so close, and so tiny, and next to her he feels so big and so awkward and so very clumsy. He is not the man for her, and he knows it. He isn't patient enough, calm enough or intellectual enough. But after so many years she may very well be the only woman for him, and he knows that, too. He wonders about compromise and counterpoint, wonders if he could ever make himself worthy of her.

"I shouldn't be here," he says abruptly. "I'm sorry, Grace. This was a mistake."

Boyd starts to move, but suddenly she's directly in his way, standing between him and the front door, and what surprises him more than anything else is the sudden anger clear in her blue eyes. It is intense, that anger, and it burns like a cold flame. Her voice is a stinging whiplash, hard and staccato. "Don't you dare. Don't you bloody dare, Boyd."

Involuntarily, he takes a step backwards. Boyd knows that tone, knows how much anger has to be boiling inside her for her to use it. It's not the impatient, irritated tone that he hears on a fairly regular basis, it's something far rarer, far more dangerous, and it means something. It is significant. Cautiously, he holds his hands up, palms towards her. "Grace…"

"No," she says, and the anger in her voice is hardening, becoming completely inflexible. "You don't do this. You don't come and go on a whim. You don't walk in and walk straight out again. You don't take it for granted that I'll let you do it, and you don't behave as if your presence here is somehow a great honour!"

Perversely, as he weathers the storm, Boyd is struck less by her sudden implacable rage than by the way the clear blue eyes blaze so fiercely at him. It's tempting, but regrettably he feels that seizing hold of her and kissing her into silence would simply be far too predictable. He thinks she would probably – quite rightly – laugh at the sheer triteness of such an unoriginal tactic. But the idea certainly stirs his blood.

"You are such an irritating, overbearing, arrogant – "

He thinks he's going to laugh. Probably won't go down well. "Charismatic? Dynamic?"

" – smug, contrary, confusing _confused_ idiot of a man."

Boyd grins. He really can't help himself. "You forgot immature, stubborn, obtuse and high-handed."

Grace glares at him. "Those, too."

"Loyal? Handsome?"

"Don't push your luck," she warns him, but although it's clear that she's still incredibly angry, the worst seems to be over. Grace sighs – very heavily indeed. "Why are you here, Boyd? What do you want?"

It would be too easy to give the glib, bantering reply that immediately forms itself. Except, he's actually very tired and there's nothing and no-one to go home to. What the hell. Boyd shrugs. "You. I want you."

There's at least a moment of satisfaction to be had in the astonished, bewildered look she gives him. But then she's shouting at him again, and since he really doesn't fancy physically manhandling her away from the door, all he can really do is stand his ground and endure the storm. And it is one _hell_ of a storm.

-oOo-

In the days ahead, neither of them will ever know where he found the patience. But find it he does, and he takes it, all of it. Every accusation, every expletive, every vehement word of every vehement indictment. Boyd stands and he lets Grace tear into him with the savagery of years of frustration and irritation, and he isn't at all surprised when the shouting finally gives way to tears. They are not happy tears, and it isn't a happy woman he finally dares to take hold of and ease against his chest. In fact, he's slightly astonished that she doesn't pound him angrily with her fists as she sobs and rages against him. What doesn't surprise him is the force with which she eventually pushes herself away from him, or the closed, tight expression on her face that tells him just how angry and mortified her unexpected loss of control has left her feeling.

Carefully, so very carefully, he tries out the words he has been patiently forming in his head. "I know that you deserve far better than me, Grace. I know I'm not what you need in your life. I'm not going to lie to you, and I'm not going to try to defend myself. What would be the point? You know who I am; what I am. But I'll tell you one thing I believe with my whole heart – I don't think there's another man on this earth who could love you more than I do. Whatever that's worth."

It's not the kind of speech Peter Boyd has ever made to anyone. Not the kind of speech he's ever even considered making to anyone. He barely believes he's capable of saying such things. But he's said them; said them into the quiet Sunday silence of her hallway. He shrugs. Waits. Watches.

He half-expects her to cry again. Possibly in the elegant manner of some 'fifties movie star.

She doesn't. She lifts her head and stares straight at him, her gaze cool and concentrated. The rage has gone, but the intensity hasn't. Grace says, "Mess me around, Boyd, and I'll never forgive you. Never."

"I believe you," Boyd says simply.

There is a short strained silence which she breaks with, "Traditionally, you're supposed to kiss me now."

He shakes his head. "Far too clichéd, Grace."

Her flickering smile is weary. "Fair enough. In that case, I need a drink."

-oOo-

In fact, the right moment comes just a little while later. There's a slight but tangible awkwardness between them that isn't improved by the self-conscious proximity they far too deliberately achieve on the sofa. Their conversation is stilted, the banter that they are so good at feeling strained and artificial. But suddenly she laughs at some idle comment he's made and he knows – just knows – that _this_ is the moment. The right moment, the best moment. He doesn't procrastinate, doesn't think about it. He simply leans in and kisses her, and he does so gently, quietly and without any drama. It's unquestionably the right approach. Her lips are warm and soft and they part easily, spontaneously, not just acquiescing, but searching, promising and asking. It's the right moment, and it's the determining moment, the moment when the whole wonderful, glorious, ridiculous thing becomes real.

Grace pulls back, regards him with a deep, affectionate solemnity that snatches at his heart. "Now you stay or you go. If you stay, this is where you belong. If you go, you don't come back."

Sensing how important it is to her, he keeps his tone soft. "You really don't need to give me an ultimatum. It's a done deal, Grace."

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "Boyd…"

Quietly, he asks, "You don't trust me?"

"It's not that. It's just… is this really the right thing for us?"

"I think it is, yes."

"Because…?" Grace prompts him.

The words come to him from nowhere. "Because I think we need each other; because I think we bring out the best in each other. Because even though we fight like cat and dog, we love each other. Don't we?"

On balance, Boyd decides, as she leans forwards again and finds his lips with hers, he probably couldn't have given her a better answer.

-oOo-

Things don't go the way Boyd might have predicted, and he's more than a little startled to find that he doesn't care. The time passes gently, intimately, and they never leave the comfortable security of the sofa. There's no passionate scramble, no reckless, lascivious fumbling; no urgency to rush headlong into that final, carnal act of commitment. They talk a lot, they laugh softly and fondly, and they learn to relax into each other a little. It's not what he's used to, and from the way Grace looks at him, it's not what she expected from him, but it is good, it is natural, and it works. The shadows lengthen and Boyd stays where he is, lounging indolently along the length of the sofa with his head in her lap. She strokes her fingers through his hair gently, rhythmically, and yes, it's mildly erotic, but it's deeply soothing, too. He likes it, likes the tenderness of it; likes the quiet, confident possessiveness he can feel in her touch.

It's getting dark, the spring night drawing slowly in. He wants to stay, but he thinks he should leave. Instinct tells him that it's time to go, and he broaches it gently, watching her expression for signs of fear, of insecurity. It gratifies him to see none. Not yet ready to move, he gazes up at her, well aware of the swell of her breast, but actually more focused on the delicate lines of her jaw. Quietly, he says, "Let me take you out to dinner tomorrow."

"Tomorrow is a school night, Boyd," Grace tells him.

"Meaning…?"

"Meaning that it'll get to eight o'clock and you'll be halfway through something when you remember you've booked a table somewhere; you'll feel obligated to leave the office, but you won't want to, so you'll go, but you'll sulk and then we'll get into a huge fight. It's as inevitable as the sun rising in the east."

"God, you're such a pessimist on the quiet, aren't you?"

"It's the company I keep."

"Just give me enough rope, Grace, and I'll decide whether or not to hang myself with it later."

"All right. Just don't expect me not to say 'I told you so' when we end up fighting all evening because you're in such a bad mood."

He grins up at her. "I'm deeply touched by your faith in me. And on that note, I'm definitely going home."

-oOo-

Boyd walks back into his house in an infinitely better mood than he left it. He forages in his fridge for food and beer, locates his laptop and settles on his own sofa in front of his own television. He is a man more-or-less at peace, at least temporarily. He works studiously, ignoring whatever banality it is that's unfolding on the television screen. It's just the sound he needs, the drip-feed of inconsequential sound that keeps the deafening silence at bay. The day will dawn when he finally makes the decision to sell the unnecessarily large house and its haunting silence; he has come to terms with that, at least. But it won't be any day in the near future. One day.

The sound of someone knocking on his front door startles him. He doesn't have many visitors, not anymore, and he doubts that even Richard Gregson would wait until so late on a Sunday evening to embark on yet another round of the escalating feud that is remorselessly developing between them. Besides, Boyd has very deliberately parked on his own drive. The knocking pauses then resumes and he grudgingly puts his laptop on the coffee table and gets to his feet. It does vaguely occur to him that his visitor could be a particularly attractive forensic psychologist of his acquaintance, but he seriously doubts she would drive across London and cross the river this late on a Sunday evening.

He is wrong. Boyd opens the front door quite prepared to go another round with Gregson, and there she is. There's something quietly defiant about her expression. Several easy witticisms spring immediately to mind, but for once he has enough sense to be guided by the wary, slightly challenging look in her eyes; that look warns him that he will pay very dearly for the wrong words, the wrong tone of voice. He settles for a very neutral, "Grace."

"Am I disturbing you?" Grace asks.

"God, no. Come in," he says, and as she walks past him into the house a fundamental thought registers. It is not a thought he likes. Closing the door quietly, Boyd gestures towards the living room door. "Make yourself comfortable. You want a drink?"

"I don't suppose you've got any brandy, have you?"

"Brandy I can do," he assures her, wondering why his mouth suddenly seems to be dry.

Behind him, she says, "You're working? It's Sunday night, Boyd."

"I know," he says, pouring drinks. "Believe me, I know."

When he turns back, drinks in hand, her coat and bag have been discarded and Grace is perched on the edge of the sofa. She looks about as relaxed as he feels, and he is far too aware of the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. She takes the brandy from him in silence and sips it nervously as he settles himself. Boyd doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to address the creeping fear that seems to be relentlessly turning his blood to ice. For want of anything better to do he picks up the remote control and switches off the television.

"Sunday night drama," Grace says absently.

For a moment he simply looks at his laptop, still open on the coffee table. Peter Boyd is many things, but he is not a coward. Mentally bracing himself, he says, "So. Is this the moment you tell me you've had time to think and you've come to your senses?"

He waits for the axe to fall, but Grace merely looks startled. She frowns. "Is that why you think I'm here?"

"Well, isn't it?"

"You really are clueless when it comes to women, aren't you, Boyd?"

"Not entirely," he says, but at the look she gives him, he shrugs. "Okay; maybe."

"Do you want to know why I'm here?"

Not quite sure whether he's irritated or not, Boyd says, "It might help."

Her gaze is very steady, and her voice is very quiet. "Why don't we just go upstairs and I'll show you…?"

Which really isn't the sort of invitation he's about to refuse. Not at all.

-oOo-

The crack in the plaster of bedroom ceiling is still there. But even though Boyd is sprawled out on his back beneath it he's feeling far too content and far too self-satisfied to notice, let alone care. Grace is tracing lazy, complicated patterns on his bare stomach and although his body is responding to her touch with Pavolvian enthusiasm, he simply lies still and quiet, watching her. In the soft light of the bedside lamp her eyes are striking, a very clear and vivid blue, and yet in their calm intensity they remind him strongly of a cat's eyes. There is something quite feline about her, he realises; something intangible, but definitely cat-like.

"You're very beautiful," she says solemnly, apparently from nowhere.

He chuckles wryly. "I think that's supposed to be my line to you, Grace."

She smiles in a way that is clearly self-deprecatory. "I'd know you were lying."

Boyd studies her for a long moment before asking, "You don't think you're beautiful?"

"Too much of a realist," Grace says dismissively, and it's quite clear the conversation is making her uncomfortable.

"Beauty is subjective," Boyd tells her, and immediately wonders if it is the right thing to have said. "What I mean is that it's not easily quantifiable, not really. Well, on a superficial level, perhaps, but..."

The blue eyes glint at him. "Keep digging, Boyd."

He holds his hands up in surrender. "Just shoot me now."

To his relief, Grace simply laughs. "Beautiful, but utterly clueless."

"Never actually thought of myself in those terms, but now you come to mention it…"

"And wonderfully egotistical."

He grins up at her, and it seems to have the desired effect because Grace leans forward and kisses him, gently at first but with increasing fervour. It's more than enough encouragement, and Boyd shifts position, rolling her under him, keeping most of his weight firmly on his elbows. Something lights in her eyes, something that wants, that needs. It takes hold of him and it won't let go, and that delights him. He kisses her throat, her chest, her breast, applies himself fully to the thoroughly wonderful and hedonistic task of making her moan and whimper and clutch sharply at his shoulders.

This is love and this is lust, tightly wound together in a wholly symbiotic relationship, and he glories in them both, just as he glories in her. There is no part of Boyd that wants to be anywhere else but with her, and the realisation is an oddly calm one, bringing an unusual sort of serenity to him. When he slowly eases into her again, he feels far more than the intense physical sensation of the intimate contact, feels more than the love, more than the lust. He feels peace.

And when Grace holds him gently in the sleepy, sated aftermath, when she runs her fingers through his hair and softly whispers his name, he knows – categorically – that however difficult the days ahead might prove to be, they will be worth whatever they might end up costing.

-oOo-

For the first time in far too long, Boyd sleeps straight through the night. When he does finally stir, cold grey morning light is attempting to creep into the room and he can hear the distant sound of traffic. London is waking and he is curled on his side, his chest firmly against the soft warmth of Grace's back. He also seems to have a possessive sort of grip on her waist, but that's okay. He can live with that. She's warm, she has interesting curves and she smells nice, and the very last thing Boyd wants to do is pry himself away from her. For a while he doesn't move at all, just lies still and silent listening to the soft sound of her breathing. Inevitably, however, duty and responsibility start to gnaw at the edges of his consciousness. He raises his head to look over her at the clock. It's later than he would like, but not irredeemably so.

He sighs, cautiously starts to untangle himself, but a surprisingly forceful hand closes around his wrist, keeping his arm securely around her waist. In truth, Boyd could break that grip without a thought, but he simply subsides, uncharacteristically acquiescent. Her voice is sleepy. "Five more minutes."

It doesn't seem like a good idea to argue. He kisses the nape of her neck gently. "Five minutes… but then I'm not the only one who needs to get a move on. Team meeting nine-thirty sharp… and some of us need to get halfway across London and back first."

Her reply is complacent. "No. Some of us just need to persuade someone to go out to the car and retrieve the bag that's in the boot."

Boyd can't help laughing. "I see. Not that you were anticipating staying the night, or anything."

Grace arches back against him gently, and her reply is wonderfully blasé. "Contingency planning, Boyd."

Five minutes somehow becomes far closer to thirty-five minutes, but by forfeiting coffee and a glance at the daily newspaper, and by sheer bloody-minded determination, Peter Boyd still manages to be driving through the Blackwall Tunnel before the eight-thirty morning news bulletin starts on the car radio. Just.

-oOo-

Monday morning, the latest of many, many Monday mornings in the Met's Cold Case Unit. Everything is at it normally is. Boyd is at his desk, deliberately not noticing that what appears to be his colleagues gathering and preparing for the traditional start-of-the-week meeting is actually his colleagues gathering to share the weekend's gossip, and those colleagues are, in turn, affecting not to notice that he is fully well aware that nothing constructive is being done. It's all part of the unspoken give-and-take arrangement that contributes to the phenomenally high success rate the unit achieves. Boyd knows he has a reputation, knows he is considered to be one of the most difficult Superintendents in the Met to work for, but the loyalty of his staff speaks for itself. When he finally gets to his feet and wanders out into the squad room, the fact that he isn't met by a sudden, guilty silence speaks volumes. No-one fails to respect the boundaries of rank, but neither do they exclude him.

It is Eve who says, "Boyd. Care to comment on the difference between a foxtrot and a waltz? Only rumour has it that you actually know your way round the dancefloor remarkably well."

Grace is quick to cut in with, "Don't wind him up, Eve, please. Not this early in the week."

Spencer is looking steadfastly at his keyboard and Kat has her head well down over a stack of reports. Boyd ignores them both in return and looks from Eve to Grace and back. He says, "I am a man of many hidden talents."

Looking as if she is going to dissolve into fits of laughter at any second, Eve says, "Apparently so."

"Stop it," Grace says. To the room in general, she announces, "Honestly, you're worse than teenagers, all of you. Are you really that hard up for gossip?"

It's a struggle, but Boyd manages to keep his expression utterly deadpan. He folds his arms and looks around slowly and deliberately, playing the patriarch to Grace's matriarch. There is silence, punctuated by a little shuffling and a few nervous glances. Doctor Grace Foley has spoken. Not for the first time in recent years, Boyd wonders who's really in charge of the CCU. She looks at him, as deadpan as he is. Only the slight glint of mirth in her eyes gives anything away.

Taking his cue, Boyd says, "Can we get on with some work now? Good. Spence, the Francombe case…"

-oOo-

"Ballistics report," Eve says, marching into his office a few hours later. "Francombe's gun wasn't the murder weapon."

Not good news. Boyd sighs and holds out his hand for the report. "Today just keeps getting better and better."

"I knew you'd be delighted," Eve says languidly. "We've got a cadaver coming in from Bethnal Green later. CID are trying to push it over onto us because there's some tenuous link to an archived case. Oh, and David Tomlinson at the CPS isn't happy with the forensics on the Butler robbery."

"Wonderful."

"You look tired, Boyd," she says, and there's no mistaking the edge of amusement in her tone.

He doesn't rise to it, just drops the ballistics report onto his desk and asks, "Anything else?"

"Nope," Eve says heading back towards the door. She hesitates momentarily, then looks back at him. "Thank you. For taking Cinderella to the ball. She needed it."

"I know."

"I'll just go back to the lab now, shall I?"

"I should," Boyd agrees mildly.

Finally in the doorway, Eve looks back one last time. She is grinning. "By the way… you do know that Prince Charming marries Cinderella in the end, right?"

Strangely, Boyd's hackles don't rise. He simply puts his glasses on in preparation for reading the ballistics report and says, "Get out of here, Eve."

She goes with the grin still firmly in place, and Boyd leans back in his chair. For a moment he is still. He listens to the everyday noise of the Unit, to the distant sound of voices, the shrill of a telephone ringing. He listens to the background hum of the forced ventilation and to the sudden hubbub of protest that suggests someone is trying to pass off something unwelcome onto someone else. Superficially, everything is very ordinary, very normal.

Except… Peter Boyd is deeply serene on that apparently ordinary Monday – and that isn't normal at all.

It isn't _entirely_ his fault that he forgets to ring the restaurant to book a table; Eve's ballistics report is, after all, relatively interesting. But when he remembers, when he finally remembers, Boyd will go to considerable lengths to redeem himself – and that's almost certainly one of the reasons why Grace won't actually shut the front door in his face.

_- the end -_


End file.
